Ireland Through Birds. Conor W. O'Brien
erosion of montane habits and onset of mechanised farming in particular have taken a heavy toll. This is not to denigrate farmers, living or dead. As someone with strong rural roots, it’s likely my own forebears contributed, in their ignorance, to some of the changes that have afflicted Ireland’s birds. They were only doing what they knew to be right, trying their best to eke prosperity from the land. Now, with the knowledge we have, it’s our duty to help balance the needs of farmer and bird to ensure both have a home in twenty-first-century Ireland.
We relish our image as a green island replete with the wonders of nature. In truth, the pockets of wilderness we have left are still receding, and many of them are deeply degraded. Our seas and rivers are far from the wellsprings of purity they once were. Even the enclaves of forest that still cling to hillsides across the country are so often comprised of ecological aliens: trees that belong half the world away, which would not be here if not for the profit of man. You can feel this as you walk among them; they’re dead zones, draining the soil of its fecundity as their canopies strangle the sunlight needed to sustain an undergrowth.
Our landscapes have also largely been shorn of the large mammals that once called them home. Wild boar, wolves and bears have all gone. Even the cherished red deer we have left have largely been sullied by the genes of the invasive sika.
This should make us cherish the avifauna, the birds we have left, all the more. The abundance of birds we have makes them an ideal conduit to the natural world, the space beyond beeps, car engines and keyboard strokes. For every species of mammal in Ireland (on both land and sea) at least five species of bird have been recorded here. This diversity is what guarantees a unique experience almost every time you set off birding. Even at my most well-explored spots I still encounter rarities; birds blown off course, or perhaps stopping over on a deliberate detour, stocking up on food before resuming a long migration north or south.
Ireland is beautifully positioned in this regard – at all times of year. Like an island trading post growing rich on the flow of silks and gold from one continent to another, we’re perfectly situated for a host of seasonal birds on their biannual journeys from Eurasia to Africa. Our avifauna changes complexion throughout the year, from the vast hosts of ducks and waders we welcome each winter to the magnificent seabird colonies that fill our cliffs in summer. Among these seasonal stopovers are some of the birds I will search for in this book. Even some resident birds, like the merlin and hen harrier, change their habits with the seasons, descending to the lowlands where they can be more easily seen.
Because of this, a journey in search of birds lets you relish Ireland throughout the year. My travels will see me looking for birds in all shades of weather. Easy are the pleasures of a sun-drenched summer day. But there is a more esoteric beauty to be had in a landscape dripping from winter rain, darkened by brooding clouds above.
As a boy I would go on adventures looking for a particular bird, sometimes with success, very often without. Like many people, I fell more out of love with the natural world as a teenager, when other passions (music, football, females) bloomed, only to return to it with a new vigour as an adult.
Now, my desire to uncover new, unseen inhabitants of wild spaces is stronger than ever. This book is, in a way, the fulfilment of boyhood vision. But with the onset of adulthood, you can indulge childhood enthusiasms to a degree never before possible. My previous expeditions were limited to the forest behind my house and grandparents’ gardens. Now I have the whole of Ireland laid out in front of me, ready to explore one valley, forest or country road at a time.
MERLIN
Dundalk
The chase is on. The tranquillity of the wetland is shattered as a cloud of starlings and finches bursts from the grass, and writhes in rapid undulation like a great airborne mollusc. Their tormentor, at first silhouetted against a pale winter sky, suddenly weaves after them, its form obscured as it twists and turns above the long grass. A boomerang made flesh, freed from the rigid trajectory of its wooden avatar, and able to realise true mastery of the aerial pursuit.
In this hunt, the outcome depends not just on the skill of the hunter but the mistake of the hunted. One false turn, out of sync with the swirling flock, or even a wingbeat or two off the pace, and it’s over. The predator inverts, throwing its talons forward to punish the deviant. In such a high-speed chase, impact can mean instant death – if the victim is lucky. Less fortunate prey are stunned but still alive, bound in the agonizing grasp of talons, swung forward so the hooked beak can finish it off with a nip to the neck. Then, it’s off to the plucking post.
The flock alights again. Calm resumes across the wetland after the brief but furious incursion. The songbirds continue their harvest of seeds and grubs among the grass and low bushes, mercifully spared by the falcon.
…
I love raptors. Though I like all birds, birds of prey have always had a special fascination for me. The power, the elegance of form, the eyesight on a level far eclipsing our own … it all made for an avian enigma, augmented by how elusive they so often proved.
And then there are the talons. As a boy who grew up on dinosaur books – and someone still enamoured with the ties between dinosaur and bird – I saw in the raptor’s talons the perfected descendent of the killing claws of their Cretaceous namesakes. Now, it isn’t the middle toe, with the switchblade raised, that does the knife work. In modern raptors it’s almost invariably the hallux, at the back of the foot, folding home to complete the clasp, that kills the prey.
Long ago, the raptors carved up predatory duties among themselves. Owls laid claim not to a certain prey but a certain time; with few exceptions they hunt from dusk till dawn, a time when few other birds can find purchase on food with eyes trained for the daylight. Eagles are the powerhouses of the family, the big-game hunters. Vultures are the undertakers, charged with recycling the corpses left behind in the wake of illness, predators and old age. This is no easy task, for carrion is always in hot demand and they must often soar huge distances to find it.
The hawks we know diverged along two broadly different paths some time ago: the accipters (think our sparrowhawk) are terrors of the forests, menacing songbirds as they weave between the trees on short, rounded wings; the buteos (think buzzard), bulky and barrel chested, soar in the open, typically targeting the rabbits and other small mammals that graze nervously in meadows around the world. Kites and harriers rival the buteos in size but are often more buoyant, preferring to take smaller morsels, even insects and earthworms.
And then there are the falcons, the avian spitfires. In their introductory blurb on the falco genus, field guides so often focus on the ‘tooth’, referring to the spike on the upper mandible. This serves as a sidearm to help dispatch prey.
But for me, having first flicked through guides to the birds of Ireland as a child, it’s always been the eyes: seemingly pure black, as if the pupil has consumed the rest of the surface to soak up every drop of light it can. In this respect, falcons are almost totally unlike any other birds of prey. And even on a moving bird at a distance, they can sometimes be seen clearly. Most often for me they’re encased in the head of the kestrel that haunts the banks of the river near my home, waiting in the wind for rodents to leave their ultraviolet calling cards, the drops of urine that will draw their reckoning to them. The black crown jewels of the kestrel can venture into a colour spectrum beyond that of human sight, and it is this that guides them through the grassy labyrinth.
We have three native falcons in Ireland. The peregrine is the king; at full dive, it’s the fastest animal on Earth, tearing down cliff faces and mountainsides with such velocity that it can decapitate its victim on impact. By far the most familiar is the kestrel. It’s perhaps our commonest raptor (though the sparrowhawk could also stake a claim). The kestrel thrives in the grassy verges that border our main roads. Here it hovers (the only falcon we have that does so) with consummate patience, waiting for its prey to betray its presence before descending in steps, readjusting coordinates for the final pounce.
Then there’s the merlin, the smallest of the three. Rather than relying on patience or a